


A Splay Of Shadows (memoirs of a headboard)

by only_lovers_left_in_genosha



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Bad Poetry, I'm Sorry, I'm sorry again, M/M, Poetry, and alliteration, fanfiction in prose, focus on inanimate object, for some reason, hyper dramatic, parenthesis-ception, seriously, severe overuse of enjambment, sex in poetry, that is very badly described, warning: i really like assonance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_lovers_left_in_genosha/pseuds/only_lovers_left_in_genosha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he wonders,<br/>reclining with impeccable posture onto another<br/>identical headboard,<br/>in moments in lazy weakness<br/>if his childhood <br/>tormentors<br/>still linger on to <br/>taint another planet (just as he does)<br/>with their life and offspring,<br/>or if they were just <br/>one more cluster of Vulcans<br/>who were consumed by <br/>the tears in space-time</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Splay Of Shadows (memoirs of a headboard)

**Author's Note:**

> yes well i was too lazy to write a proper fic so i did it in prose and it is very bad, i hate it and i don't even know why i'm uploading this here. this is the first work that i'm uploading on ao3 but not my first work entirely ( though to be honest i don't think you could tell all that well). self beta-d and terrible. 
> 
> i wrote this at either very late at night or very early in the morning. that just depends on your perspective and my tattered memory banks holding together.

Highlights of a

Standard issue, mediocre

Headboard

That is exactly like his brother

In the (many ways) parallel

Quarters

An almost exemplary clone

And only differentiated by fond

Memories

Of a captain

Who would rather pursue the image

Of indifference

But is betrayed continuously

By tentative affections

Directed at someone who portrayed

Continuously

Of having none

And is appreciative of that deduction

(Or shall we say neutral;

As his entire being is build on the foundation

Of supposed neutrality)

But is proven wrong time and tide again

By a mannerly jaded captain

Whose main maxim

Is that of self-loathing

And self-defragmentation;

A surreptitious style of self-deprecation,

A certain flair for the stigma,

A silk Gladiolus nestled in

The bouquet.

And that difference is made

Prominent

By the shared supplementary keenness

Of a First Officer

Without a proper space on the shelf

For him in the world.

Either of them.

(Though he really doesn’t have a choice anymore,

Does he?)

 

And he wonders,

Reclining with impeccable posture onto another

Identical headboard,

In moments in lazy weakness

If his childhood

Tormentors

Still linger on to

Taint another planet (just as he does)

With their life and offspring,

Or if they were just

One more cluster of Vulcans

Who were consumed by

The tears in space-time

(It’s just a little slant in your annunciation,

Accents do take a toll.)

But the Captain’s oft concessions always

Draw him out

Of the dark recesses of his mind.

Ready to smother the black

Thoughts with his

Body mass

And to kiss

(Be it with talented lips or with two dexterous fingers)

The barest rims of a scowl

Into submission.

 

And that headboard

From which we began

Bears witness to such doting that is

Their ever-ongoing courtship

That would be plain and plainly

Ordinary and unremarkable to

An uneducated observer-

Just another set of fools who would

Die for each other (as if

History hasn’t seen enough of that already)-

But to a certain Chief Medical Officer

And a Head Engineer

And a Navigator,

Their hazardous romance,

Promptly situated in the eye of the storm,

Is indefinable.

Even to the Helmsman

And the Russian Whiz Kid;

Fit to burst with

An incredulous degree of trust

Ridiculous in it’s intensity to those

Who are strangers to the sensation.

 

“ You know, they’ve got it all wrong Spock, it’s not about who you would die for

Because we all die in the end, and as we do, don’t we all die

For someone? Wouldn’t we all dedicate our

Last breath, our last regrets to somebody?

 Well, I know I would.

I think that it’s more important who you would live for. Who you would still get up for, because even if they aren’t there,

Their memory still burns bright

Enough to urge you into another day. It’s more important that you

Would live for someone than die for them, in the end. I mean, anybody

Can be dead. It takes someone really special to remain alive

Even though the person they love isn’t.

Isn’t it special Spock?”

 

He nods like mechanics clunking into life, slow and

Controlled,

Knowing full well who the Captain

References in his garble of words.

Intoxication makes him a scholar,

Inebriation a philosopher.

The First Officer lives for the coming

Day in which he will say these things to him without the

Protective shroud of ethanol.

At least, unlike his counterpart,

He will have his Captain’s breath in the crook

 Of his neck for these

Paltry hours.

 

And that headboard is witness to

Fevered discussions

And half-lidded goopy grins

And the cheesy quips

From the Captain’s part

And miniscule quirks of the corner

(Like quarks of the captain’s universe that he didn’t know existed;

Lost in the primitive ignorance of nuclide notation)

Of the mouth

And the softening of the eyes

That means more than one would think

That is the loosening of the mask

On the part of the Vulcan.

And the Captain grows to price

Subtle grins enclosed in dark irises

As something that is worth more than any form

Of bright smile or raucously unbridled laughter.

And his impatient heart grows to appreciate

The languid bonelessness as they lounge on the bed

And allow a chess game of befuddling complexity

Unfold, without a mite of effort on either part.

 

And the other moments,

In which the Captain is boneless of a different breed

(And courtesy of a more welcome cause).

Boneless, yes.

But dammed if he is anywhere near languidity.

 

All is said in the snippets of silence-

The silent catch of the captain’s breath,

The silent press of his forehead

Against the familiar and cool headboard

(A contrast to his pleasurably heated body)

As he clenches and rocks (not as silently)

Against the Vulcan behinds him;

The silent tension that is encompassing the

Entire being of the First Officer

(Tension of many degrees)

That is trying desperately to

Reign in the excessive power stored

In his solid limbs

And rearrange a slipping masque of control

And still his lips from leaking and

Wasting

The insignificant phonics that

Come together

 To make up the precious name

Of the Captain

Whom he is thrusting fervently into

And a heart that reeks of total dedication

Of the most illogical kind.

 

And the Captain will always appreciate

The First Officer purging

All thoughts of dilithium ions and

Bridges

(Both the kind that requires burning and

The one that they will both need to return to in a few hours)

From his brain

With alarming velocity

And effective prudence

So that the only residual thought in his skull

Is his mind croaking out

_moremoremore_

Accompanied dutifully by

The name of the First Officer

Spilling from his mouth in a slur

And the flare of _want_

Deep in his bones.

And they climax,

One after the other,

And spend themselves-

The First Officer into the Captain,

Marking him as his to lesser

Beasts.

 

And they have fallen,

Quite comfortably into

The cliché of needing nothing

Except for the warmth

Of each other.

And it’s such an overused perception,

Infected with the enduring

Association of

B-grade romantic comedies

From centuries gone to them.

So they unearth and

Exhume the full

Impact,

The full meaning behind

The trope.

And they live it,

 Together

As vibrant as the

Quasars

They warp past,

On their way to their

Next diplomatic

Adventure.

 

Just another day together

That they futilely and naively

Hope

Will wind off

Into eternity and

Her relations

(Or at the very least

The principle of eternity)

And they ponder over this,

Separately,

But almost in tandem

As they

Relish in the afterglow,

Engulfed in a splay of shadows,

Tangled like old spools of thread

In the enjambment of appendages,

Anticipating a shared slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> if you are reading this, well done you have survived the fic. well done you.
> 
> you should probably go and read something well written now, wash out the taste of amateur scribbles.


End file.
